


Number Four.

by zahrawrites



Series: The 'I Love You' Series [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Minor Injuries, i'm probably missing a load of others too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zahrawrites/pseuds/zahrawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come here. Let me fix it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Four.

"I just don’t understand." The frustration in Cas’ voice is evidenced by something clattering onto the table in the background of the phone call. "How does she not understand the word _no_ or _put it down_ or _for fucks sake Claire_ mumbled under my breath?"

The little chuckle that escapes Dean is involuntary but he can practically feel Cas glaring at him through the phone.

"I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean to do it."

Cas’ responding laugh is humourless and dripping in sarcasm. "She looked me straight in the eyes, smirked at me, and threw the book at the glass figurine hard enough so it would fall and smash. _On purpose_."

"She’s only nine-"

"Eleven."

"-cut her some slack."

"She doesn’t need slack, she needs discipline. Discipline that her parents are too lazy or too apathetic to give her. I’m just her babysitter, I can’t do that."

Dean makes a noise of non-committal. "She only messes with you because she likes you."

"She’s the devil’s spa- hang on, somebody’s at the door." He hears Cas place the glass pieces on the table, and the slide of the chair as it scrapes against the laminate flooring for him to stand.

Castiel keeps the phone to his ear as he walks to the front door, scowling at the little glass pieces on the floor where the glass angel figurine had smashed – evidence of his incompetence. He silently prays there aren’t more problems waiting for him on the other side of the door. It was hard enough getting Claire to sleep, and he’s dreading having to explain the smashed angel to her parents.

It’s Dean hundred watt smile that greets him instead.

He lets the phone slide into his palm, hitting the _end call_ button without looking as it does.

"It’s you."

Dean looks mildly offended. He pockets his cell and closes the door behind him as he follows Cas into the dining room.

"You say that like you aren’t glad to see me?"

Castiel just sighs and takes his seat. Dean wanders, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t want to accidentally reach out and break something.

"What’re you doing here? It’s almost 10:30, shouldn’t you be at home?" Castiel asks, looking down at how the pieces are supposed to join together. The figurine is more complicated than it has any right to be.

Dean whistles appreciatively.

"Can’t get over how nice a place this is. Her folks must be _rollin’_ in money." He replies instead, tilting his head admirably at the glass chandelier hanging over their heads. The chandelier that would probably kill him if it somehow happened to fall.

At least that way, he wouldn’t have to explain the figurine.

"Yet they can’t provide adequate emotional development for their only daughter." Castiel mutters back.

"Sammy’s in bed, told him I’d stop by here on my way back from work." Dean wanders over to stop by the glass pieces. He still hasn’t glanced at Castiel, instead, choosing to look at each of the framed photos on the shelves.

"You want me to sweep this?" He asks absently, like he’s offering out of politeness.

Dean’s hovering is making Castiel nervous.

"Would you just _sit down_?" he bursts out, snapping his head in Dean’s direction, eyes wide.

Dean holds his palms up to display his surrender, and comes to plonk down on the chair next to Castiel.

It’s quiet for a while.

There’s no settling creak from the house, no rush of traffic from outside. It’s just… _quiet_ , and Castiel feels like he can finally breathe.

He places the pieces against each other. His hands hurt, there’s numerous cuts that he’d given up trying to plaster ages ago – the first aid box left abandoned in front of him.

He can sense Dean’s eyes on him, feel the warmth that’s exuded from him. He hopes the glue will hold this time. It seems like someone up there is listening to his silent prayers, because the pieces stick together as he pries his bleeding fingers away from them.

As soon as he thinks he’s done it and he can move onto the next piece, it wobbles and topples over, hits the wooden table with a resounding thud. He tries to catch it mid-fall but snatches his hand back when he feels another stinging slice across the inside of his palm.

He huffs a breath, lets his hands fall limp into his lap and rolls his neck, trying fight the urge to bin the whole thing and just take the blame.

The pieces glint in the soft light; passive taunts at his incompetence, slight jabs at his confidence.

It doesn’t help that he can feel the intensity of Dean’s gaze. He doesn’t ask _what_ or _why_ , he’s too tired.

"Come here. Let me fix it." comes a soft voice from his left.

He turns to face Dean in his seat, glare still focused on the pieces.

"Go ahead." Castiel consents helplessly.

He’s surprised when warm, calloused hands take his wrists and lay his palms carefully on the table.

Dean slides the first aid kit towards himself and reaches inside for cotton wool and anti-septic liquid. He dabs a little into the wool and takes one of Castiel’s hands into his own, observing the damage.

Castiel doesn’t say a word.  

He just watches Dean dab here and there and wipe away the blood. The touch is warm and protective, like the sun on your skin after the rain, or wrapping up in blankets at 3am when you feel hungry and have to stumble to the cold kitchen. He gaze flicks between the boy in front of him and the hands that are slowly but surely mending his.

Dean takes the plasters, laying Cas’ palm down on his thigh while he unwraps it, and places them cautiously over the cuts, intently listening on any flinches or grimaces that Castiel might make. He ensures each one is disinfected and wiped before plastering it.

Then, he does the same for the other hand.

Castiel is stunned at the level of care Dean uses, nearly can’t believe that this is same boy that done the almost irreparable damage to Alistair’s car when he’d teased Sam about their dead mother. That this is the same boy that shouted obscenities at their homophobic neighbour. That this is the same boy that hitchhiked through miles of clouded thunderstorm to reach their injured uncle near the other side of the country when there was nothing and there was no-one except his own two feet.

Castiel feels something in the centre of his chest; like someone’s thrown a football at him and he’s failed to catch it. It hurts. Almost takes his breath away.

When Dean’s done with both hands he holds them up to eye-level to inspect his work. That’s when he realises Castiel is staring and offers up an uncharacteristically shy smile accompanied by a similarly unguarded gaze.

"I thought you were talking about the figurine." Castiel murmurs, voice a little shaky but not enough for Dean to notice.

Dean lets his hands go, lips curving into the boyish smile he’s come to expect.

"I can do that too."

He wiggles his fingers in front of Castiel. "Magic fingers."

Castiel can do nothing but smile back and watch him get to work on fixing another of Castiel’s messes.

"As soon as I’m done with this, it’ll look just as angelic as you." Dean remarks with a teasing smirk thrown in Castiel direction.

It takes all of his effort not to lean over and kiss Dean.


End file.
